


Cats Are A Feeling

by Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers (writingfanfic)



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: Anxiety, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 15:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12324066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers
Summary: For the prompt: 'I'm personally having a terrible anxiety night, and would love to read about how Q would comfort you on a night like this.'





	Cats Are A Feeling

“Sweetheart?”

You hear the door open, but you just can’t bring yourself to look; you bury your head in the pillow, and clench your jaw again.  _You can bring your heart rate down. You know you can_. You want to, so badly.

“(Y/N)?”

You feel the bed dip as Q sits down, and you shake your head. You’re not crying. You wish you were. It’s all caught and tangled in your throat like barbed wire, and you moan faintly, scratching at the covers as the hot, sticky, awful feeling of _anxiety_  clings to your bones.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?!”

“I don’t…” You stop, faintly, and clutch your fist to your chest. “I c-can’t…”

“You can’t breathe?! You need me to phone an ambulance?!” Q’s voice is level, but you can hear the faint shrill of panic behind his words, and you shake your head frantically. Now he thinks it’s something  _real_. Something  _serious_. Not just you being  _pathetic_ …

You’re not being pathetic. You remember what your therapist said, and close your eyes, wishing you could believe it. This is real, and has as many corporeal consequences as a bout of physical illness. You know that. If it was Q having a panic attack on the bed, you’d tell him that.

He hauls you up; you resist, but the man is an ex-firefighter, and you might as well have tried to resist the pull of gravity for the good it does you. You are on his lap, and he holds you close.

“Tell me. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” His voice is low, almost as if he’s scared other people will hear him in this moment of emotional closeness. “Tell me.”

“S’a panic attack,” you mutter, low, into his broad chest, and he stills for a moment. “I’m just being pathetic…”

“Shut up.” He holds you tightly, and rocks you, pressing kisses to your face as if he’s scared you’ll vanish before he can get them all out. “You shut the hell up. You’re not pathetic. What caused it?”

“I don’t  _know_ …” The final syllable extends into a whimper as the knot finally unravels, and you begin to sob gently, feeling the tears soak his shirt. “I’m s-sorry…”

“Quit that.” He sounds almost fierce now, and you whimper faintly again. “Now, you quit that. We all have our bad days, all of us.” You nuzzle closer. “Even me. And I don’t even have feelings.” You snort with laughter through the tears, and you feel his mouth, pressed against your hair, curve into a smile. “Not even one.”

“Not even half?”

“Nah. Uh… cats is a feeling, right?”

“You’re the worst.” You snuffle, and he holds you close.

“Uh-huh. But I’m your worst. I’m on your side.” You nod, and then cuddle up close to him. “Hey, you know how they say the way to stop anxiety is to face your fears? Go out? Do stuff?” You look up at him, that lump growing in your throat again as you think about how many spoons it will take to go out. “You wanna fuck all of that off and just get into bed and watch TV for like forty-eight hours?”

“…can we order in?” you ask, and he sighs.

“Okay, that feeling I just felt wasn’t cats.” He kisses you. “It was better than cats.”


End file.
